Part Of The Process
by fc2001
Summary: Pain was part of the process with them...GregSofia, spoilers up to 7.07 Post Mortem. Rated for swearing and adult themes.


**Title**: Part Of The Process

**Pairing: **Greg/Sofia

**Author**: fc2001

**Disclaimer**: Without prejudice, the characters within belong to Anthony Zuiker and CBS. Don't own 'em, don't sue. Besides, if I owned Greg, he wouldn't be out of my sight long enough to do this...and...ahem I'll stop there.

**Notes**: First CSI fic...it's weird stylistically but wouldn't go away til I wrote it. Spoilers up to 7.07 Post Mortem, but I think that's been shown everywhere now so...

**Part Of The Process**

He was stronger than he looked (she shouldn't have been shocked by this, but she was). He was always the geek. The one who would get women (or not get women) based on smarts, and wit (because making a woman laugh is usually a fairly good way of getting into their pants), not because of his physical form. Nick and Warrick were the ones who physically attracted women. She wasn't a weakling and he easily dominated her, the body beneath the suit solid (was this really the same man who had been kicked half to death not that long ago?).

The divider buckled slightly as her weight was slammed against it (she wished this was the first time she'd found herself in this situation). It felt cold and cheap even through her suit jacket. His hands were strong, forceful, and almost vicelike on her shoulders, short nails digging through the two thin layers of her clothing and into the tender flesh above her shoulder blades.

She shifted her weight to balance against him, provide some resistance, to make him aware this was not a one way fight and if you were dealing it out rough, you had to be able to take it too. However hard he worked to violate her mouth, to bruise her lips, she returned in kind, forcing her tongue between his teeth and taking an occasional, vicious nip at his lower lip (pain was part of the process with them).

His hands left her shoulders, slipped down between them, and made short work of the buttons of her suit jacket, the smaller buttons of her blouse and found the front clasp of her bra (there was no ceremony). She thanked God for front fastening bras, momentarily thrown from her stride by the swipe of the pad of the thumb over her nipple. Her fingers fisted in the soft, dark blond hair, catching on the short hairs at the nape of his neck and obviously causing pain. Nails were drawn roughly across the sensitive flesh of her stomach. The muscles under her skin contracted, unused to the punishment, and caused her to jerk and only tighten her hold.

This was a dysfunctional arrangement. He was in love with someone else (she was the anti-Sara – blonde and blue eyed to the dark hair and dark eyes of his fellow CSI) and she was a commitment phobic workaholic looking for no strings sex (or that's what she told herself). They both knew that (somehow, as long as they both knew it was fucked up, that made the fucked up acceptable to them).

They only did it when their own love lives were too miserable to bear, or in times of emotional trauma (like now, she reasoned). They really brought new meaning to the words comfort fuck (comfort was the one thing that was always missing). They were all about toilet cubicles and the backseats of cars (his, generally, not hers, she had noted) and hard surfaces and cold places. The timing was usually rushed, and the finesse lacking, but the one thing that was comforting was his unfailing ability to make her forget her own name (he was insanely good with his fingers).

Somehow, all that ceased to matter the minute they were kissing. Whatever it was, it was chemistry (which she'd never believed in). It led to panting, desperate breathing, haphazardly cast aside clothing, her leg over his hip and urgent heat inside her (she'd have bite marks again too).

She allowed her head to drop forward onto his shoulder, face turned into his neck (and damn, he smelled good). She was sure his weight against her was all that was keeping her up, that and his hand on her upper thigh, fingertips bruising soft flesh. She enjoyed the pain (she had always been a little masochistic like that).

The fingertips grew tighter the faster and harder he got (her measure of how close he was). Her own edge approached with a worrying (and yet predictable) rapidity, her tongue between her teeth (she had to stop from moaning somehow). Climax ripped through her body. It was never subtle – when she came, it was like a freight train (or not at all – she knew which she preferred).

His body tensed, and then the tension ebbed. There was a simple, quiet moment where they just stayed, entangled, and spent, breathing heavily (in tandem). Eventually, his hand released her thigh (but she could still feel his fingertips), and they disentangled, pulling themselves back together (this bit felt most sordid).

"I'm sorry."

She kept her eyes turned away, fingers fumbling the catch on her trousers (orgasms made her stupid). He always apologised (for the earth shattering orgasm or the fact he treated her like a whore again?). She shrugged.

"We should get back."


End file.
